She pictures herself on velvet ottomans.
Her affirmations on the walls.
Her glory in the mirror.
The ache in her spine.
She was taught to crouch and hold still during a fight.
Her head hurts as she holds it upward.
She craves to recognise herself in her mirror image.
Everybody is trying to take that away from her.
This street is closed to her.
This is not an entrance for her.
There are no opportunities for someone like her.
Precise, unique. Since when are these traits considered dead ends?
Hazel Harlequin tries hard to stick to her guns, her dreams, her vision.
She passes closed doors and shut windows, the air is cold, occasionally warm.
She tries to look ahead and hold herself close, enamoured with hope.
And even though she receives a kick or two, she does her best not to be poisoned as she
Continues to march on her own way.
“Clothilde Edith Ford, daughter of Edward Onslow Ford” by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912)